#09 – 48 kg of dog vs 3388 g of baby

PAPACITO #09

We had 48 kilos of Rottweiler at home — and then we decided to bring in 3388 grams of baby.

"Do I eat it or not?"

Looking back, that weight difference sounds like the kind of fight that should've been called off at the weigh-in. But at the time, there wasn't anything particularly funny about it.

Before the baby was born, Rommi had basically never been around children, let alone babies.

And Rommi isn't exactly the kind of dog who welcomes every stranger with open arms.

Or open paws.

New people are always a bit of a project for Rommi. If someone comes to our house for the first few times, Rommi follows them around like a security guard whose training somehow skipped the entire customer service section.

First, a cautious sniff.

Then front paws down, ass in the air.

Quickly back up.

A nudge with the nose.

Retreat.

Possibly a bark.

And repeat.

As if he's trying to figure out who the fuck you are and what the fuck you're doing in his house.

Once the visitor has played with him for a while or thrown the ball enough times, the security clearance is usually approved. Treats also let you skip the queue in the background check process.

Rommi has never bitten or intentionally hurt anyone. But 48 kilos is still 48 kilos. Rommi himself doesn't seem to be aware of this. As far as he's concerned, he fits perfectly well on your lap or in a rocking chair, just like some five-kilo lapdog — although Rommi was already five kilos when we got him.

And then there's the growling.

Rommi growls when he plays. Rommi growls when he's excited. Rommi growls when he's guarding. Rommi growls when something seems suspicious.

Growling is how he talks.

Barking, on the other hand, is how he informs the entire fucking neighbourhood that somebody just walked down the road 200 metres away.

This was the household we were about to bring a baby into for the first time.

3388 grams of human.

When we got home from the hospital, we took things carefully.

Rommi was brought home first. The idea was that the baby wouldn't just suddenly appear in the middle of his kingdom while His Majesty had been somewhere else.

Then we arrived.

Rommi's first reaction was roughly:

"YEEEEES, THEY'RE BACK!!"

Until he noticed we'd brought something else with us.

The baby stayed safely up high in the carrier while Rommi started investigating what the hell we'd brought home this time.

He stood up on his hind legs like a kangaroo and managed to sniff the tiny toes.

And growled.

Right.

This is going to be fun.

For the next few days, we had quite the security system in place.

The crib was the baby's safe zone in the living room. Rommi would sniff the baby through the bars.

And growl.

We introduced the baby while holding him. At first, Rommi stayed on a leash so that 48 kilos of enthusiasm could, if necessary, be kept a little farther away from 3388 grams.

Rommi sniffed.

Turned into a kangaroo.

And growled.

Gradually, we dared to ditch the leash. It was starting to seem fairly clear that Rommi wasn't planning to eat the newest member of the family.

Still, one thought kept running through my head:

Even if the dog didn't mean any harm, 48 kilos could do quite a lot of damage to 3388 grams completely by accident.

At night, we wedged the crib between our bed and the wall. At the foot of the bed, we added some chairs to stop Rommi from getting to the baby.

Rommi tried to bulldoze his way through the chairs — of course.

So we wedged them in even tighter.

Basically, we had a newborn baby in the middle of a high-security prison stretching from the living room to the bedroom.

Outside the prison patrolled a 48-kilo security guard whose motives we weren't entirely sure about yet.

We came home on Saturday.

On Monday at 4:13 a.m., the security system failed.

Or, more accurately, Rommi decided he'd had enough of our security system.

My wife was sitting in bed breastfeeding the baby.

And somehow Rommi had eventually managed to get onto the bed and join them.

At that point, there were no more chairs between them.

No leash.

No keeping the baby high up.

Rommi deliberately pushed his muzzle right up against the baby's cheek...

And there he was.

Satisfied.

Excited.

It slowly started to dawn on us that maybe all that growling during the first few days hadn't meant:

"Get that thing the fuck out of here."

— although maybe on the first day it did.

Maybe, in the end, what he'd actually been saying was:

"I WANT TO COME SAY HELLO TOO!"

After that night, our asses started to unclench a little too.

And that was the beginning of the friendship.

At first, the friendship was pretty easy from Rommi's point of view.

The baby lay there.

The baby slept.

The baby ate.

The baby shit his pants.

Repeat.

Rommi could lie next to him, stick his muzzle close and take part in family life without the new family member interfering with his business all that much.

The perfect little brother.

But then the little brother learned to move.

GRRR — and this time there was absolutely no doubt that it meant:

"Get that thing the fuck out of here."

These days, a dog bone left on the floor can start a race.

One competitor has four-wheel drive, 48 kilos of body weight and years of experience with dog bones.

The other competitor can't even walk yet — so I suppose he's technically got four-wheel drive too.

And somehow, the race is surprisingly even.

Ownership of toys has also become somewhat unclear.

Nobody respects anyone else's property anymore, and stuff keeps changing hands in both directions.

Sometimes the two of them sit side by side next to the wooden train track like best friends.

A moment later, the toothless troublemaker is pointing an accusing finger at Rommi:

"You bastard."

Sometimes he's pointing at the bone in Rommi's mouth.

Sometimes at Rommi.

Sometimes, apparently, at the mere fact that Rommi exists.

A friend once looked at these pictures and asked:

"Is he turning into a dog?"

I'm starting to suspect he already thinks Rommi is more of a dad than I am.

Of course, their relationship doesn't mean Rommi puts up with everything.

Quite the opposite.

Now that the toothless troublemaker can move around on his own, Rommi has had to start setting some boundaries for the first time.

And actually, the same pattern seems to repeat every time the toothless troublemaker installs some new feature into his operating system.

When he came home, Rommi growled.
When he found his voice, Rommi growled.
When he learned to move, Rommi growled.
When he learned to stand, Rommi growled.

For a while, every new feature seems suspicious to Rommi and requires some extra surveillance. Then he gets used to it, the growling stops and life goes back to normal.

Until the next update drops.

Next up seems to be fucking walking.

Can't wait.

We've also never thought that Rommi growling is automatically a bad thing. Quite the opposite. Growling is his way of making himself pretty clear:

"That's enough. I need some space."

And we'd much rather have it that way. It's far better for a dog to tell you he's uncomfortable first than to skip the warning altogether.

We're teaching the same thing from the other direction too. When Rommi growls, the toothless troublemaker isn't allowed to go up to him.

Not because he should be afraid of Rommi.

But because you don't approach a growling dog.

If he learns that lesson this early, it certainly won't go to waste.

One day, Rommi was lying in his bed right outside the toothless troublemaker's room.

Then came the familiar thump-thump-thump from inside.

Rommi woke up and looked towards the room.

There was something remarkably human about his expression.

"Oh fuck, not this guy again..."

The toothless troublemaker came charging out of the room at full speed. Normally, he goes straight over the empty dog bed without giving it a second thought.

This time, somebody happened to be occupying it.

When the distance between them was about half a metre — you guessed it, Rommi growled.

He didn't attack.

He didn't get up.

He just gave him a warning growl.

Don't come any closer.

And this was when it became apparent that these two have apparently developed some kind of language of their own.

The baby stopped dead in his tracks.

Looked at Rommi.

Brows furrowed.

Dead serious.

Don't you fucking start with me.

Then he made some loud noise of his own that sounded suspiciously like he was barking back.

And happily continued on his way to Papacito in the kitchen.

Matter settled.

The same shift in the balance of power had already started showing in the summer.

We were watching football at a local pitch, and the two of them were lying next to each other on a blanket.

Apparently, Rommi was slightly in the toothless troublemaker's way.

So he grabbed the dog and moved him aside.

"Move, you bastard."

And 48 kilos of Rottweiler moved.

That was about the point when I started wondering which one of these two we were actually supposed to be protecting.

Back in December, we were building barricades out of chairs to stop the dog from getting to the baby.

Now the dog is just trying to sleep in peace while a tiny human steals his bones, takes his toys, crawls over his bed, moves his head out of the way and barks back at him if His Majesty dares to complain about any of it.

At first, we protected the baby from the dog.

Now, sometimes it feels like we should be protecting the dog from the baby.

But judging by everything that's happened, Rommi got exactly what he'd been growling for behind those crib bars back in December.

A little brother.

He just didn't realise the little brother would eventually learn to move.

And if things keep developing at this rate, I no longer think it's impossible that the first word won't be Mommy.

Or Daddy.

Or Papacito.

But:

"ROMMI, FOR FUCK'S SAKE!"